


will you take my soul in the midnight rain?

by PUNK_MENACE



Category: Midnight Texas (TV)
Genre: Affection, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Caretaking, Crying, Depression, Evil Talisman, Exhaustion, Family Feels, Fever, Gen, Guilt, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loneliness, Magic, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Nausea, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Nosebleed, Platonic Relationships, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sick Character, Sickfic, So much guilt, Suicidal Thoughts, Team as Family, Vomiting, duh - Freeform, no actual suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-20 04:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19986382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PUNK_MENACE/pseuds/PUNK_MENACE
Summary: It's a peaceful day in Midnight, Texas when a riderless wagon rolls into town.  The wagon holds a stash of magical artifacts so powerful that it's as loud as the pawnshop for Manfred.  Among the chorus of voices, one stands out, calling out to him, and he can't resist its pull.Things start going downhill soon after.





	will you take my soul in the midnight rain?

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Broken by Lund. I sort of wish I had the ability to concentrate long enough to have made this a super long fic with a lot of detail but I'm still really happy with this! The end was kind of hard to write but I hope it's satisfactory.
> 
> This fic deals with a lot of anxiety and self-loathing. It gets a bit dark. Manfred's thoughts are turned against him. If you find that triggering, please make sure to take care of yourself! Use your own discretion on whether to read this or not.
> 
> [ ** _Bolded italics_** = the rosary, _plain italics_ = Manfred/Manfred's nightmares]

Midnight, Texas is an out-of-the-way little town with a small but protective population. Not a lot of people come through town and after some months of living here, Manfred can understand why everyone was so suspicious of him. Now, as he watches an old and rusted _wagon_ of all things roll into town, Manfred feels that protectiveness pull at his chest. 

Two huge, black horses pull the wagon. Besides that, there is no one pulling their reins. Their coats are shiny despite just having gotten to town and their eyes glint in the sun. Manfred pulls on a pair of pants and knocks back a pill for the migraine already brewing in his skull. Midnight has a knack for giving him headaches what with all the spirits and supernatural beings attracted here. Something about that wagon, though, is making his temples pound. Nothing good can come from something so powerful. Even from within the safety of his home, the energy radiating out from the wagon is upsetting his stomach.

The other Midnighters had the same idea. As he’s stepping out, he sees Fiji, Bobo, Olivia, and Lem first. A moment later and Rev is strolling down from the church to the center of the street where the wagon has stopped. Joe and Chuy appear from their home, which is a bit farther than everything else. 

It seems that the rest of town has learned that certain residents are more inclined to deal with certain issues because no one else comes out from their shelters. From here, Manfred can see Madonna look through the window for but a second before swiftly pulling the blinds closed. He feels the protective instinct rear its head again, more intensely this time, and he clenches his fists before rounding the stopped wagon.

The horses smell of hay, which is the only normal thing about the whole situation. The wagon smells of pungent herbs and sickly sweet scents mixed with ash and the distinct smell of candles burning. It’s built of dark wood and has a spotless canvas stretched tightly over it. Reaching the back, he sees that a sheet has been pulled over the opening. 

Manfred glances over at Olivia. He looks down to see a knife in her hands. Nodding, he reaches up, takes a hold of the sheet, and slowly pulls it back. Candlelight floods out to the edges of the wagon before it’s smothered by the Texan midmorning sun. 

Instantly, Manfred is bombarded with whispers and screams of talisman, but a certain voice rings out so loudly and demanding that he’s nearly overwhelmed. He stumbles back a step, gripping the sheet tighter in his hand, the other one flying up to grip his forehead.

“Christ,” Bobo says, “What’s in there?”

His friends all crowd closer. Manfred feels a hand on his shoulder, solid and reassuring. Rubbing his forehead hard, he chokes back a groan. The waves of pain ebb into a manageable, steady sensation of two ice picks digging into the back of each eyeball. He peels his eyes open again and sees Lem beside him, silently asking _are you okay?_ Manfred cards his hand through his hair and then stuffs it in his pocket.

“Sorry, just…a whole lot of energy. Very loud.”

“And absolutely no one inside,” Rev muses.

Fiji and Bobo are already inside the wagon. Olivia, with her usual suspicion coming off her in waves, crosses her arms and says, “This is ridiculous. You two, get out of there before it explodes or something.”

“What makes you think it’s gonna explode,” Bobo calls from the inside of the wagon. His tone is good-natured, so there must not be anything horrifying in there. Curiosity sparks in Manfred despite the concerning amount of energy rolling off the wagon. There must be something incredibly powerful – there must be _several_ something’s with immense power. His grandma always told him to pay attention to whatever is out there and that anything that gives him a migraine is bound to be useful should he have the balls to grab it.

“There’s a lot of haunted objects in there for sure,” he says, swinging a boot up onto the wagon and pulling himself up, “And…something else.” The voice from earlier is still just as loud as before. 

It’s calling his name. And he can’t stand being this far from it anymore.

“Whoa, Manfred, are you sure you want to be in there?” Whoever says that, Manfred isn’t listening.

Manfred roots through the jars of dried herbs, huge tomes, and various instruments he’s never seen. It doesn’t take him any longer than two minutes to get his hands on a jewelry box despite the mess in the wagon. It’s small, made up of only two wooden parts and two small, rusted hinges. The desperate feeling infesting his body eases slightly, centering in his stomach and chest now, but at the same time becomes significantly sharper. 

The wagon is a bit cramped with three grown adults inside and piles of miscellaneous items scattered throughout. Fiji leans over the pile of thick, dust-covered books that she was studying, careful not to let the candle underneath light her hair on fire. “What is it?” 

The jewelry box opens with a _clack_ of the wood lid hitting the container. Inside are three items: a silver locket on a long silver chain, a black rosary, and a large ring with a wolf on it. Manfred’s fingers zero in on the rosary and in the dim candlelight, he sees that it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever touched. He slips it on over his head. The moment it rests against his chest, the world around him sharpens back into focus.

“—sure that’s a good idea?” Disoriented, Manfred shakes his head and looks up. Bobo is leaning down, trying to catch his eye. Concern shows starkly in his eyes and furrowed brow. 

“Hm?” Manfred stands and dusts off his knees. “It’s fine, Bobo. You guys are a bit overprotective, is all.”

“I wouldn’t consider this overprotective,” Lem interjects, “This is…strange, to say the least.”

Joe nods slowly. “You should put it back, Manfred. It feels off.”

Feeling frustration sting him, Manfred scoffs. “Midnight is pretty fucking 'off' and none of you have left so far, huh? Gimmie a break. It’s just a cool rosary.” With that, he shoulders his way out of the wagon and drops down onto the dust again. The incense, candle smoke, and talismans have combined their efforts to give him a full-blown migraine. A small section of his vision is completely gone now. “Gonna go lay down,” he throws over his shoulder.

Everything is rubbing him the wrong way. It must be because he feels like his skull is in a vice. The sun is too bright, the sweat rolling down his neck and back is infuriating, even the texture of his clothes is too much. Manfred stomps up the stairs of his home and swings the door open. The cool shade provides a bit of a relief but as he closes the door and looks around, he sees it’s not yet migraine-friendly. He has to close the curtains, turn off the lights, get his clothes off, and swallow some more pills. In a fit of frustration, he leans against the door and smacks the back of his head into the wood.

It doesn’t help. Manfred groans deep in his throat. And then he realizes how curt he was with his friends and he didn’t even stop to offer his help.

**_What a shitty friend you are, Manfred._ **

_What a shitty friend I am._

Sighing, he drags his hand over his face. He’ll be of no help if he goes back out there while his head is pounding, and he needs to do some damage control. If he doesn’t get to bed soon, he’ll be awake through the nausea and the last time he dry heaved, it only made his headache worse, and he ended up almost crying over the toilet. So, not ideal.

He goes around doing what he needs to do. He makes sure his home is dark, the air conditioning is on, and he knocks back whatever pills he needs with a hefty glass of water. Finally, Manfred closes the door of his bedroom and strips down to his boxers. Sliding in under his covers, Manfred decides to make it up to his friends as soon as possible. For now, he sleeps.

It can’t actually be called sleep when he spends his time unconscious thrashing in his bed and moaning in fear, though. Manfred wakes up gasping and sits up ramrod straight, cold sweat trickling down his temples. The sun has gone down. Judging by his racing heart and the anxiety prickling up his skin, he’s been having nightmares for at least half of that time. Vague memories ripple through his mind, sneering faces, cruel words, and a sense of wrongness swimming in and out of his consciousness. His headache is mostly gone but he feels like a fish out of water.

Manfred leans forward to rest his head in his hands, elbows poking into his knees. He takes deep breaths and tries to get his heart rate to slow down. The rosary which hangs from his neck dangles under him. He doesn’t remember getting into bed very clearly – he’d been desperate to fall asleep and the pills were kicking in – but he thinks he might have slipped the rosary off. Manfred must have been more disoriented than he thought. 

The sheets are uncomfortably warm from his body heat which makes the chill throughout the rest of his home quite undesirable. With the sun already set, the heat of the day has disappeared, leaving an even colder evening outside. Regardless, he inhales one last full breath before slipping his legs off the side of the bed and takes several seconds to stretch. Various bones crack but he still hadn’t slept well enough to get any satisfaction.

Blearily, Manfred flips the lights on. He's fully awake by the time he’s pulling his clothes on, which means the dread of yet another supernatural event this week has the chance to sink in again. A bit of shame joins the dread.

**_You slept all day. Your friends could have been hurt._ **

_I slept all day, my friends could have been hurt._

**_Yet another failure._ **

Familiar loneliness fills his chest. It feels like cold water being poured into his ribcage and he _hates_ it, he despises feeling so alone. Everyone is probably pissed at him for snapping at them, especially because they’d just been trying to help. Now none of them are going to want to talk to him. How can he even consider walking into Home Cookin’?

No, he thinks, the only way to rectify this is to help with the wagon. Speaking of which, Manfred pads over to his window and slides the curtain open. He fiddles anxiously with the rosary for a moment before tucking it under his shirt. The moon shines down on an empty street. Home Cookin’s lights are on. Maybe they already took care of it without him. 

**_So you were pretty useless this time around…what a pathetic trend._ **

_I’m pathetic._

The last time he’d felt like this, Manfred had asked his grandma to somehow get him a therapist. It was hard, but she worked harder, and eventually, they settled in one place for three months. It was the longest they’d ever stayed in one place and eventually the stagnation had been worse than Manfred’s thoughts. The therapist had helped with the loneliness and terrible self-esteem that came from moving around constantly and being deemed a freak. Along with the ability to talk freely to a professional, his therapist had taught him ways to deal with his crappy mind. Because he’d been so young – only 13 – he hadn’t been prescribed anything and since then he’d just worked through depressive episodes and anxiety on his own. Now he thinks he might need to find a therapist.

**_Midnight is so tiny there isn’t a therapist around for miles. You’re fine._ **

_I’m fine._

He’s fine.

* * *

Walking into Home Cookin’, Manfred realizes that his anxiety really had gotten the better of him. Madonna greets him with a smile and the promise of a hot meal. Crossing into the Midnighter’s room, he’s further reassured by his friends’ worried faces that he’d just been overthinking.

“Hey, Manny,” Bobo beckons him to the table and pats his shoulder before sitting back down next to Fiji. “You okay? You ran off pretty quick earlier.”

Rubbing his neck, Manfred takes his seat at the table. “Sorry, guys. Everything in the wagon was incredibly powerful and the more powerful an object, the louder it is. I had to get away from it. But I should have stayed to help…” Trailing off, he digs his fingers into his neck, partly to try to work at the knot there and partly to ground himself. His hands shake and his heart flutters.

_Is that the best I can do? ‘I should have’?_

**_You’re such a disappointment_.**

“Nonsense. Your health comes before any of this supernatural ridiculousness. That’s the rule here, Manfred. Our lives are more important than investigating every little mystery.” Rev claps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. A chorus of agreements follows.

Manfred flushes and feels himself calm down at Emilio’s kind words. They all seem so genuine. Who is he not to trust these people that took him in? He owes them at least that. "So what happened anyway?"

"It just up and rolled itself out of town," Chuy answers. "The horses didn't respond to anything. There wasn't anything malicious about them but they were still off." 

"Well," Manfred says with a shit-eating grin, "Why look a gift horse in the mouth?" At that, Olivia shoves him lightly and everyone groans good-naturedly. Madonna sweeps into the room with a slice of chicken pot pie and his favorite beer. 

Though it smells absolutely delectable, Manfred’s appetite is nowhere to be found. Staring down at the plate, he starts to sweat, knowing that refusing this will be bad for two reasons. The first is, it’s just plain rude. The second is that he loves this dish and if he doesn’t clean his plate in a matter of minutes, everyone will start to worry and badger him, asking if he’s okay. Then Fiji will begin to offer teas and Olivia will stare at him to try and get whatever he’s keeping from them and it’ll go on and on. So, he grabs his fork and scoops a tiny piece into his mouth. All he has to do is pretend to eat for a bit, fade into the background as the others begin to drink, and slip away.

About twenty minutes later, Manfred has eaten less than a fourth of the chicken pot pie but put away four beers and Rev is telling a story with animated gestures. Carefully, he slides out of his seat while the rest of his friends are laughing uproariously at the punch line and slips out of Home Cookin’. 

The moon is high in the sky. The streets are still empty, no wagon to be seen, and when Manfred looks down to unlock his door, he sees that he’s begun to fiddle with his rosary without even realizing it. Well, that _is_ why he wears his jewelry. Some of it dampens his powers and some are just to have something to fiddle with, not to mention that he thinks it looks good. 

With his door closed and the lights turned on, Manfred realizes he’s feeling quite under the weather. He feels lightheaded and breathless, his eyes feel hot, and his body has begun to ache. Manfred curses under his breath. He hasn’t gotten the flu in a while but when he does, it hits hard. 

In the kitchen, he feels his eyes drooping despite having woken up only three hours ago. His movements are sluggish as he grabs a glass of water and some flu medicine. When he finally sits heavily onto his bed, the sheets feel heavenly, and the idea of staying awake any longer is offensive.

He wakes up two hours later at exactly 2:03 AM and yet again his heart is racing, thudding against his chest, his blood is roaring in his ears and all he can remember is feeling like an absolute waste of space. Manfred rolls onto his side and clutches a pillow to his chest in a wretched attempt to crush the rising sense of loneliness out of him. Then, suddenly, to his delight, the pressure on his stomach makes him realize how incredibly nauseated he is. In a panic, Manfred rolls the rest of the way off the bed and scrambles into the bathroom down the hall and, without even turning on the lights, he falls to his knees before the toilet and throws up his pitiful dinner.

The floor feels freezing against his too-hot skin, the porcelain so cold it almost burns, but his stomach is so unstable that the idea of pulling away from the toilet is unbearable. Manfred feels his muscles cramp painfully and leans forward, vomiting again. The pain is enough to bring tears to his eyes and, combined with the misery that plagues the rest of his body, he can’t help but rest his burning forehead on the rim of the seat and cry.

He feels gross. His whole body is way too hot and yet at the same time, the chilly air feels horribly cold on his skin, and he wishes he could at least go to his room to pull on some sweatpants and a shirt. Amid his self-pitying thoughts, Manfred’s throat spasms and his mouth fills with saliva. He heaves again. The smell is starting to get to him, so when he can finally stop spitting up bile, he flushes the toilet. 

“Ohh fuck,” Manfred groans. His voice is rough from the whole vomiting ordeal and the effort of throwing up has made his headache ramp up a couple of notches. Exhausted but feeling slightly better, Manfred leans back, limp, against the bathtub and sighs shakily. His heart is still beating rapidly and the anxiety of the nightmares hasn’t left him. Whether it’s from the pain, the sudden awakening, or his latest rise in anxiety, his nerves feel flayed and his breathing won’t even out.

It takes another half hour of sitting by the toilet, waiting to throw up before he feels safe enough to leave the bathroom. Thankfully he only dry heaves once during that time, and afterward, he stumbles into the kitchen with a hand dragging on a wall at all times and sweat coming off him in bullets. Manfred downs some Nyquil and a bit of water and slides back into cold sheets, hoping that he’ll be able to sleep through the night.

He doesn’t. 

* * *

When the sun finally peeks out from the horizon, Manfred is deeply asleep, only because his body is exhausted from waking up in near agony three times. Between waking up, nightmares had plagued him throughout the night, making his heart race until he’s breathing raggedly and feeling like his chest is collapsing. Sometime in the middle of the night he becomes terribly congested so he’s condemned to breathing through his mouth, which, inevitably, ends with a throat so sore he can’t speak. 

The clock reads noon by the time he feels human enough to stay awake and consider a hot cup of coffee. The fever hasn’t left his body, though, so he decides to stay in bed, and the only time he gets up for three hours is to grab two more blankets. 

At four, his phone rings, jerking him from his light doze. He knows the irritability is just because he’s sick as a dog and anxious but he still feels guilty when he picks up and immediately barks, “What?” To add to his misery, speaking feels like gargling gravel, so he goes on to plead, “Keep it short, please.” At least he said please.

“ _Um. Sorry?_ ” It’s Fiji, of course it’s Fiji. Now he feels guilty for snapping at her yet again. “ _You didn’t come to breakfast so I was worried. You sound kinda sick, Manny, are you okay?_ ”

“God…sorry, Fij. ‘M pretty sick. Didn’ mean to snap at you.”

Fiji makes a small, sympathetic noise. “ _Oh, hun, it’s alright. I’ll come over with some tea and snacks in a bit, is that okay?_ ”

“You don’t have to do that…”

“ _I want to. Everyone deserves some TLC when they’re sick.”_

Giving in is easy when he feels like someone is sitting on his chest. “Alright. Thanks, Fij.”

“ _No problem, Manny. Get some sleep._ ”

“I will.” With that, he hangs up, eyes watering at the brightness of his screen even though it’s at the lowest percentage. Even though his whole body aches horribly, his heart rate just won’t slow down, and he can’t breathe through his nose, sleepiness still pulls at his eyelids. Simultaneously, loneliness still occupies his chest like an infestation and he feels guilty for a variety of things.

**_Fiji has better things than to take care of you._ **

_I shouldn’t have spoken to her like that._

The rosary on his chest feels hot.

_I deserve to be this sick after letting them all down._

**_And now Fiji is going to waste her time on you. Let’s hope that no one else gets involved._ **

Manfred clenches his eyes shut and tries not to cry as he drifts off into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Quiet voices float in from the living room when Manfred wakes up. He’s getting tired of waking up in a cold sweat, heart racing as if he just ran a marathon. Pressing his face into the pillow, Manfred allows himself to sob just enough to calm himself down. His therapist had drilled the idea that catharsis is very much helpful – crying, screaming, even flailing around to work through emotions can all help to level his mind out. Despite this, he feels embarrassed that he’d cry just because of some bad dreams like a child.

Manfred peels himself off the bed and prepares to stand up. Even that simple change of position has him dangerously dizzy. Swaying, he presses a hand to his face, grinding the heel into his right eye to try and stem the throbbing pain behind him. He takes a few deep breaths to clear away the black spots in his vision until he feels steady enough to press down on the mattress and stand.

Of course, he gets a head rush, and the dizziness comes back twofold. Manfred stumbles to the door blindly, a choked whimper in his throat, holding his hand out so that he doesn’t smash into anything. As he walks he feels slightly better but still smushes a bit into the door and when he does, he stays there, just breathing for a few more minutes.

When he opens his eyes again, the voices outside are silent. Curious, Manfred peaks his head out the door, sniffling miserably, and sees that Fiji and Joe are outside and judging by the way their eyes zero in on him, they’ve probably been staring at the door for a while. His brain takes this as a good time to remind him that he forgot to put on any clothes over his black boxers.

As soon as Fiji sees him, she slides out of her seat and strides on over, a sympathetic furrow in her brow and arms outstretched to take his elbow and rest warmly on his back. “Oh, dear,” she coos, “You look terrible, Manfred. Come here, I’ve got some nice, hot tea and some medicine for you. When you’re done you can go back to sleep.”

Going with the flow is easiest when Midnighters decide to take care of you, Manfred has come to realize. He trusts Fiji to help him feel better, if not just a little less crappy. Riding out the flu alone is never fun, and he knows by experience, so he feels a wave of gratitude. He tries to compress all of that and more – the guilt of disrupting her routine, the despair that being this sick brings, and his gratefulness toward Joe, too – into a tired smile and rusty-sounding _thanks_. Aside from that, he simply doesn’t have the strength necessary to do any more than just listen to their directions and drink what they give him.

The tea is strong and the steam clears up his sinuses pretty well. The medicine is homemade, little herbal-green cubes wrapped in a napkin, and they taste like eucalyptus. He has instructions to chew on one every three hours with a tall glass of water to wash it down and hydrate. While he sits at the table feeling disoriented and small and exhausted, Fiji takes her seat beside him, but only after wrapping him in two blankets and only after he’s taken his medicine. 

“It’s sort of angel territory, the whole healing thing, so I came over with Fij to see if I could help. Hope that’s okay,” Joe explains. The two of them are relaxed, if not a bit concerned for his health. “It seems like she's got it down though.”

“Appreciate it.” Despite the tea, his throat burns too strongly to speak in full sentences. He nods twice, slowly, like a bobblehead, and some of his shaggy hair falls over his forehead. He feels like he’s moving through jelly.

“Alrighty, I think it’s time to let you rest up.” Fiji stands. She leans over him briefly to carefully brush the hair out of his face. Sometime during the fifteen minutes after he left his bed, Manfred has gone from boiling to freezing, and Fiji’s hand is so warm he can’t help but lean into it, eyes closed.

Again, he nods and allows Fiji and Joe to half-carry and half-drag him back to bed. By the time he collapses onto the mattress, Manfred can’t keep his eyes open, and simply lets Fiji pull the covers over him. Feeling snug, he rolls onto his side and presses his face into the pillow, curling his legs up and trembling from the feverish chill in his body. 

Fiji and Joe say goodbye, but he’s already basically asleep, which is why he isn’t sure if the kiss on his forehead he feels is real or not.

* * *

_Manfred knows where he is when he opens his eyes again. Midnight, Texas is like no place else on Earth, certainly unique compared to the other towns Manfred’s visited. But this isn’t the home he’s settled into._

_Midnight is gone. Decimated. Somehow he knows it's because he left when things got rough, as per usual._

_Shame threatens to swallow him up. He feels like he’s drowning, like something is sitting on his chest and he can’t breathe. This is all because of him._

_Manfred starts walking down the main street against his will. His body moves without his consent. The farther into town he goes, the more bodies he sees. Joe, Rev, Chuy. Lem, Olivia, they’re all dead. Their mangled corpses are spread around town. And yet, somehow, they all manage to look into his eyes and say, **“This is your fault.”**_

_And Manfred knows that they’re right._

_Manfred blinks and Midnight is completely gone, replaced by desert plains. His RV is here and spirits roam around, moaning in pain, screaming their despair into the dunes. There’s no one here but him. Literally, it’s him and another Manfred standing only a handful of yards in front of him. The sky is…not right, it’s black, darker than should be possible, and the stars and moon are nowhere to be seen._

_Not-Manfred comes a little closer. His eyes are black as the sky, skin pale as if he’d died. Manfred, the real one, the one currently hyperventilating and unable to move, sees that he_ is _dead. The closer he comes, the easier it is to make out the two things wrapped around his bruised and broken neck. A black rosary and a rope._

_“This is your rightful destiny. But don’t worry. The fear, shame, guilt, the loneliness…it doesn’t leave. At least in the afterlife, we can hang onto our only constant companions.” Not-Manfred – but really, who is he to say which one is real? – comes to a stop only a foot in front of him. He cocks his head and says, “After all, who are we without misery? It follows us around and taints everyone around us. If I were you…and, well, I am…I’d get it over with quick. You’re deadweight, buddy.”_

_Deadweight._

_Dead._

_He’s fucking useless._

_Manfred starts to choke suddenly, hands flying up to his throat, eyes wide open. He scrambles backward and falls and doesn’t stop falling, the sand disappearing and leaving only the all-consuming darkness and the rope tightening around his neck. His hands clamp down on boiling hot rosary beads._

* * *

Distantly, Manfred hears screaming. As he wakes up, he realizes it’s his own, and it hurts so goddamn much he thinks he’s going to throw up. His scream is cut off by an intense gag, the nightmarish pain in his head making nausea wash over him, choking him like the noose in his dream.

At that point, he knows he’s doomed to not making it to the toilet and the only thing he can do is toss himself off the bed, blankets and all, and crawl forward until he’s clear of any fabrics and throw up onto his wooden floors. When he’s done, Manfred tries to sit back, but he’s so off-balance that he just falls back next to the bed. Sobbing, Manfred curls up, hands clutching his neck and his shirt, hot tears rolling down his face. He can’t catch his breath. His chest feels like it’s being crushed, his head feels like it’s splitting, and all he can think is that his friends _hate_ him. 

**_They ABHOR you._ **

_I’m so worthless to them, that want me gone, I’m such bad luck, all I’m good for is running._

Gasping like a fish out of water, Manfred lets out another gravelly, painful, mangled scream, but he bites down hard on his fist to try and keep it quiet. He suspects that he might attract unwanted attention if he keeps yelling like this but he can’t help it, the unending pain in his skull only gets worse the more the voice in his mind screams. 

**_THEY HATE YOU THEY’VE BEEN LYING THEY WANT YOU GONE EVERY TIME YOU LEAVE THE ROOM ALL THEY CAN DO IS GAG AND SHIVER IN DISGUST BECAUSE THEY HATE YOU AND YOU’RE SO, SO ALONE WHY DON’T YOU JUST LEAVE THEY’LL BETRAY YOU ANYWAY BECAUSE YOU AREN’T PERFECT YOU AREN’T USEFUL LIKE ANYONE ELSE THEY WANT YOU GONE THEY CAN DEFINITELY FIND SOMEONE ELSE TO SAVE THEM AND THEY WANT TO FIND SOMEONE ELSE, ANYBODY ELSE IS BETTER THAN YOU_ **

Apocalyptic. That’s the only word he can think of to describe the pain cracking his skull open. Manfred screams and there is no chance to strangle it in his throat. It comes bubbling out from his heaving chest and fills his head with the sound of his own destruction.

Desperate, Manfred pulls himself off the bed, bunching his sheets in his hands for leverage. He needs to get out of his room and away from his own thoughts. The adrenaline from what is most likely a panic attack combined with his revulsion at his “family's" ability to just abandon him because he has no worth – _**THEY’RE RIGHT** , THEY’RE RIGHT_ – fuels his body. In the midst of his breakdown, he can feel his body begging him to just lie down and sleep, get his breathing under control, get some oxygen in his lungs so that his brain doesn’t break down, too, like a fire raging in the eye of a hurricane. 

He throws up again on the way out the door, vomiting up nothing but bile. Hunched against the doorway, he sees that he slept through the night and most of the day and that there’s a small basket outside his door. Manfred sees a card with Olivia and Lem’s name on it and the smell of cookies makes him dry heave again. It’s not real. None of it is real, they’re just trying to keep him around because he’s supposed to stop the apocalypse, and Manfred thinks for a second that they’re at least a little justified, but he doesn’t care anymore.

When he wipes his mouth, something hot and sticky rubs off on the top of his hand. Manfred looks down and sees that it’s blood. His nose is bleeding freely. Angrily, he kicks the basket and lurches down the stairs and toward the pawnshop. He’s going to confront them all, tell them he knows that they’re lying to him for their gain.

“Holy shit,” someone says, “Manfred?”

Manfred’s head shoots up. Bobo is jogging over to him, a look of concern on his face, one that doesn’t fool him at all. The pain swirling in his head, the sting of betrayal, and the undeniable feeling of his body breaking down are unstoppable. Tears streak down his face, no matter how hard he wishes they would stop, and he feels all the more like a weakling for it.

Ignoring Bobo and the other Midnighters trickling out of their homes at the commotion, Manfred continues his unsteady path toward the pawnshop, feeling a bit of triumph at the sight of silhouettes moving around inside. He's been stuck here long enough to know these people's habits.

Bobo reaches him and places a hesitant hand on his shoulder. Manfred shrugs his hand off, shivering violently, and pushes him away with a rude hand gesture. He throws the door of the pawnshop open without a second thought to the force with which it hits the walls. The spirits are all screeching, as usual, and the full force of the psychic energy hits his trembling, fever-ravaged body like a fist to the stomach.

“I get it now!” Manfred yells, slurring heavily. “I do.”

“Manfred, what the hell is wrong with you?” Olivia scowls at him, disbelieving. “This isn’t you.” It took less than two minutes for the whole little group to gather around him. Beside her are Lem, Chuy, and Rev.

“I live in a house with _wheels_ ,” he shrieks, “I can leave aaany time I want to! Any time!” He turns to look at the other half of the group – Bobo, Fiji, Joe – arms swinging around with about as much control as if he were blackout drunk. He balls his hands up into tight fists until his nails dig in. Nausea crawls up his throat. “I’m sooo sorry that I’m not your perfect fuckin’ apoc-apocalypse stopper! So, so fucking sorry. Well. _Whatever_. I know you don’t want me here. ‘Cuz I’m not _useful_.” Shame bubbles up. His whole body feels like it’s shutting down. The pain in his head makes him think, vaguely, that it must be cracking open. It’s getting worse the longer he stays here, he knows it. “Fuck all of you.” Manfred’s voice breaks. As he starts staggering toward the door, his legs give out completely before he even has to shoulder past anyone.

He hits the ground and stays there. Manfred’s body has had enough turmoil in the past few days to last him a lifetime. There isn’t an ounce of energy left in his shaking body. His vision starts to blur and his eyelids are already sliding shut. His hearing cuts out soon after, leaving nothing but his sense of touch and the agony blazing through every inch of his body. Everything around him is falling away, further and further, until the last thing he feels is the cross and rosary beads pressed against his chest burning red-hot. And then nothing.

* * *

It takes them all of ten minutes to figure out that the smoking rosary is the cause of Manfred’s insanity. Joe rips the rosary from his neck and crushes the blood-red beads and cross in his fist. The amount of power that is released from the talisman is so much that it explodes out in a wave of energy that rattles everything in the pawnshop, the walls, the windows, and knocks every Midnighter on their asses.

With the threat destroyed, all seven of them crowd around a very limp and pale Manfred. Unconscious, he continues to shiver, blood dripping from his nose and sweat covering his too-hot skin. A red flush covers his cheeks and ears, undeniably from the terrible fever. His breaths are wheezy and shallow.

“How did it get this bad? How did we let this happen?” Rev clenches his hand in his hat, mournful and unable to help. No amount of prayer will give Manfred what he really needs – medical help. The next best thing that Midnight has is Fiji and a tiny clinic which, to be honest, doesn’t quite reach the standard that their resident witch can achieve on her own. This time, though, they’ll need real meds, not just teas and spells.

"I knew I felt something off when I went with Fiji to check on him," Joe laments, voice full of guilt, "I should have done something."

Lem shakes his head. "I think we owe him an apology. But right now, his health is the priority." 

Fiji and Olivia, the two most well versed in first aid and medical knowledge, kneel beside Manfred. Fiji wraps her arms around his shoulders, gently, so gently, and pulls him into her lap. “We need to get him to my house,” Fiji says, “His fever is too high and he desperately needs to rest, hydrate, and cool down in a cold bath.” Her eyes are watery and her voice shakes minutely but aside from that, her determination doesn’t waver.

Nodding, Olivia gestures at Lem, who bends down to pick up Manfred as though he weighs as much as a ragdoll. And just like a ragdoll, Manfred lies limply in his arms, head lolling back. In a moment of overwhelming worry, Olivia reaches out and arranges Manfred’s arms to rest in his lap and brushes his hair back. The tenderness in her actions proves that, like the rest of them, what just happened shook her.

It’s quite understandable. Manfred is a gentle soul. He doesn’t snap at people unless he’s under great duress and when he does, he apologizes profusely. The rosary’s influence turned him into a stranger. 

_I know you don’t want me here_ , he’d wept. What sort of magic could have warped his mind enough to lead him to believe that he isn’t just as much a part of their family as any of them?

Silently, with great urgency, their little group makes it down the street and into Fiji’s home. The sun is setting but the heat is still sticking around and they need to cool Manfred down as fast as possible. Lem may not be a doctor and he hasn’t been a human in centuries but even he knows that Manfred’s temperature is much too high to be healthy.

Inside Fiji’s home, everyone but Joe bustles around. Joe volunteered to go fly to the clinic and pick up the medicine they need, as the job necessitates speed. Everyone else is busy preparing the lukewarm bath, the herbal medicines, and monitoring Manfred’s concerning vitals.

It’s going to be a long night and, judging by Manfred’s unresponsiveness, a few long days, too.

* * *

After having cooled down in the bath, Manfred wakes up screaming and crying in the middle of the night, begging with unintelligible pleas. Thankfully, no one planned on sleeping, and they flocked to Manfred with reassuring words and gentle touches. He calms considerably when Fiji, in her inclination to physical affection, slides onto the bed to lie beside him. It helps keep him asleep longer and since it works so well, they set up a rotation. Manfred continually latches on to whoever sits with him, more vulnerable than he’s ever been.

* * *

The next time Manfred is anywhere near conscious, he can feel that a good chunk of time has passed. Days, most likely. He feels stronger now. It’s much easier to breathe and the constant anxiety that he only now realizes had been plaguing him is all but gone. His muscles are still a bit sore but the horrendous headache is blessedly gone.

After a moment, he feels okay enough to open his eyes. Soft light filters through unfamiliar curtains. It doesn’t stab into his brain. Though his vision is a bit blurry, probably from being asleep for so long, he doesn’t feel sick anymore. This is the first time he’s woken up normally in at least three or four days. Blearily, Manfred sits up and rubs his eyes until they clear. He can’t quite remember why he’d been sleeping so badly or been so sick. All he knows is that his body remembers it.

“Hey.” Looking up, Manfred sees Rev at the door. “You’re up.” The older man smiles, genuine and soft as the morning light.

With sleepy, slow movements, Manfred looks around the room. The crystals and earth-tone floral patterns everywhere tell him that he’s in Fiji’s room.

“You look tired.”

“I am,” Manfred murmurs.

“Then go back to sleep, hm? We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Manfred nods. “Okay. I feel like I’m forgetting something…” He lies back down in the soft sheets, closing his eyes, and drifting off again, feeling safe despite the bit of blank memory.

* * *

This time, when he wakes up, Manfred’s heart starts beating a little faster. There was a split second after he woke up when he didn’t remember where he was. Now he does. So, Manfred does what all mature adults do when they wake up and are suddenly dropped into a sea of shame, guilt, and anxiety. He keeps his eyes closed and pretends to sleep as he sorts out his thoughts and somewhat hopes that he’ll just fall asleep again in the middle of it.

Thinking back on it now, with a clearer head, he knows that the rosary had been a talisman of pure evil. It had called to him, and he muses that maybe he was already feeling enough insecurity to attract its attention, and he’d had no choice but to listen. The pull of the rosary had been too much; he suspects that it had sunken its proverbial claws into his mind and soul the moment the wagon pulled into town. For this, he feels a bit of the guilt trickle away, but he’d still hurt his friends. 

Manfred had almost died, too. The sickness must have been a lovely little side effect to the mental anguish. To be honest, the way it altered his mind and took over his very personality was infinitely worse than any fever or headache. His actions, no matter how far from his own desires they were, had hurt his friends.

He has some apologizing to do. Some groveling might be in order, too, depending on how terrible his words had been. Manfred doesn’t remember the last bit before he passed out very well, just a lot of shouting and unfathomable pain. He groans and cards a hand through his slightly greasy hair and decides to bite the bullet.

It’s nice to be able to throw himself off of the bed he lies in without immediately throwing up. He takes a moment to stretch - the crack of many, many bones is highly satisfying. When he cracks his neck, it sounds like a glow stick, and once he’s done, he feels ready to face the people he’s disappointed.

Manfred wraps his hand around the doorknob, exhales, and steps out into the living room. He catches glimpses of gentle colors, wind chimes, plants, and many crystals for only a second before someone is sweeping him into their arms. It knocks a laugh out of him, the familiarity of Fiji’s hug helping calm his nerves a bit.

“Rev told me you woke up yesterday but when I went in, you were already asleep again, and I was really worried because you slept for two days in a row and then _another_ day, and I just…”

The concern in her voice is what really makes his heart ache. He did this to her, he put her out of her bedroom and made her worry and made the others worry, all while saying some horrible stuff to them. He can’t help but tuck his face into her shoulder and squeeze her back, trying to get the emotion out of his throat before he starts to apologize. Manfred’s always detested crying in front of anyone and the only exception was his grandmother but even then the vulnerability was too much for him. The idea of having to juggle sincere apologies and breaking down like a little kid makes his hands shake so he just hugs her harder and lets himself tremble in her arms.

Obviously, Fiji feels him shudder. Her hand comes up to comb through his hair while the other rubs up and down his back.

“M’sorry. Sorry. I’m so sorry, Fij, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” Fuck. He’s already crying. “I’m s-so sorry. The- the rosary, it made me s-sick, and it t-told me things—”

“Shh, shh, Manny.” Fiji shuffles them over to the couch. When they sit, Manfred can feel the others’ presence as they press in and offer grounding touches on his back, his shoulders, arms, anything they can reach. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Joe explained everything.”

Joe’s voice comes from somewhere behind them. “I figured out the talisman was manipulating you. It feeds off of negative emotions once it latches onto its victim, feeding them terrible thoughts and weakening their immune system. It explains why you got so sick. But, I destroyed it, and you’re safe now, Manfred.”

_Safe_. He’s safe now, surrounded by his family. The terrible thoughts are gone from his mind. His actions weren’t irredeemable. Manfred keeps his face tucked into Fiji’s shoulders, melting a little further into the reassuring presence of his family. Bobo’s arm is resting on his shoulders, the warmth of it settling through the fabric of his shirt.

The talisman had left its mark – a bit of comfort isn’t enough to completely brush it away. His mind and body have been battered. The effects of the malicious and self-destructive thoughts would not just fade away on their own. But the experience taught him something that Manfred thought he already knew. No matter what, he can lean on his family. More than that, he can be at his lowest, his most irritable and unstable, and still, his family will stay beside him. They know who he really is, what he’s done, what he’s capable of, and they love him regardless. These had been superficial thoughts before – he hadn’t really believed them. Now, surrounded by his family of misfits and freaks, he finally understands.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my [Tumblr](https://captainjames-loveswriting.tumblr.com/) if y'all wanna talk about Midnight, Texas or any other fandom we both like or yell at me about updating or whatever!  
> 


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